


The Dream

by Arterius_Rising



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Biting, Dream Sex, F/M, Memory Loss, One Shot, horns and claws, jousting with words, mention of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-08 00:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arterius_Rising/pseuds/Arterius_Rising
Summary: It begins with a dream. Of a body painted in crimson, and horns decorated in gleaming, golden bands like rings of the sun. Only, once Hawke realises the attraction is there, there isn’t any way to be rid of it.Believe her, she tries.





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: An accumulation of too much energy drink, a lack of sleep and a burning itch to write this horned giant, the Arishok, has resulted in this fic. I had planned for more chapters, but as of yet, this is a one shot. 
> 
> Warning: Hawke does suffer from memory loss. If this makes anyone uncomfortable, please be aware before you read.

It was strange. Hawke found herself in a long room, it’s ceiling vaulted and held up precariously by three chunky pillars. An unconventional number to have, Hawke mused to herself. Surely the structure would be sturdier with them spaced out, and with more of them... not that she had much knowledge of buildings. Not even Varric could weave his unique kind of magic to persuade people that Hawke was capable of putting things up, as easily as she broke them down.

Her hands were callus with sores of battle, not with the hammer and nail. Humble background or no, she was born to fight. In thinking about that, she was reminded of her father. It was he who taught her that she would be the one to protect the family, should something happen to him. It had been a heavy burden to put on a child, and Hawke wondered if that weight had guided her path; taken partly, her choice to choose.

“A woman who fights.” Echoing her thoughts, the voice came from behind her. Hawke, oddly enough, didn’t jolt. It was as if she’d known they were there, before they’d spoken. She felt... muted. Hazy. Like she’d inhaled a potent concoction of elfroot the Dalish created with their nimble fingers to get high.

They denied it of course, no one liked to admit when they were caught with their nobbled, dirt stained fingers in the cookie jar — especially the wondering elves, but that was besides the point, and she was getting away from herself again. Her thoughts were like wisps on a good day, and right then and there, the threads were even harder to capture.

If her companions realised her constant consternation with the delicate harp strings of memory, they kept their lips sealed. If she noticed them leave her little notes, or let her casual overhear something she’d forgotten as a soft reminder, she didn’t design to notice.

“Those are not common among the Qun.”

The voice came louder. But the speaker hadn’t raised their voice. It was more like bees wax had been removed from her ears, the stuff she’d used to block out Carver’s Maker awful snoring.

“I thought that women don’t fight at all in the Qun?” She smirked, glancing over her shoulder. The Arishok stood between the middle and right pillars, with a light coming in from his back, it caused a glow around his impressive horns.

During one of her drunken nights huddled around a table in the Hanged man, avoiding thoughts of last call and the inevitable stumble back to Gamlen’s shack, Isabella had purred in great, sultry detail of how their horn size related to other parts of their anatomy. Namely, their cocks, for the men. Sometimes even the women.

Hawke had stars in her eyes, thinking of the Arishok in his make-shift throne all high and mighty, even though he was stranded in a foreign land and left to the confines of a space no better than the alienage, listened closely and snickered at the time — or had it been only last night?

Now, somehow, as if the Maker had willed it, he was here. The object of her fascination, her cat killing curiosity.

Stood more than seven feet off the ground, with a body of hard grey, painted in streaks of crimson and with hair as pale as snow that blanketed the mountains. He was otherworldly, and as cultured as she liked herself to believe, Hawke was still a farm girl at heart — she knew next to nothing about his people. For Makers sake, she’d only spoken to him once. And he’d basically sent her back out on her arse.

What she did know came from rumours, and Hawke owned enough false ones about her, that she tended to make her own assumptions based off her own observations. That was a difficult thing to do when it came to the Qun. Which left her with only sprinkles of information about their set roles, from the whispers of nobles in Hightown, from Isabella, and those who caught sight of them on the docks.

It was probably all hearsay, but she’d be a liar - which she was, but not at this moment - to say she wasn’t the least bit curious. Not just about their leader, whose visage had refused to leave her mind after their brief meeting, but their way of life. How something that was described as peaceful existence by their own insistence, order in the worlds chaos, could actually be achieved without violence or repression.

His eyes distracted her. They were a pale silver. Not like the steel of her own, more like liquid metal, heated by a blacksmith. They, along with his hair and harsh expression, gave him a cold appearance. That if she touched him, he might instead be stone, rather than flesh. Not that she would put her hand readily - or any other body part for that matter - anywhere near him... once a liar, Hawke, always a liar.

“There are some. Those chosen for a role in the Ben-Hassrath. But none are within the Karataam. None fight, as you do human. A conundrum, or a hoax, I cannot place you. It is not my role to do so.”

Despite his inhuman appearance, there was a keen intelligence behind his beastly features. A predators intellect, but capable of complex thinking nonetheless — not just a brute. Hawke licked her lips, feeling her tongue tingle with the need to joust with it.

She turned to face him fully. “Which means one of those facts must not be true. Either I am no fighter, or I am not really a woman.”

“Indeed.” He was as cryptic as one of Varric’s tax reports. Scratch that, as shady as half her friends tax reports.

“Shall I prove to you, at least one of those?” Awareness burst through her. Where in the Black city had that come from? The words had expelled from her lips before her - admittedly unreliable - filter had even processed them. Not the first time it had happened, but Hawke hadn’t thought herself capable of saying such things to him. (Thinking them was an entirely different matter.) They weren’t even the same species. He appeared to be half dragon, and she was... simply, her.

Hawke. Warrior. Sister.

Liar. Cheat. Murderer.

“Meravas.” The Arishok dipped his chin, the light behind him splintered off the golden bands decorating his larger set of horns, and the sets of earrings hung from his pointed ears.

It took a lot of will power, and subtle prayers to the Maker, to avoid thinking about how rough his voice was, how well it carried in the vaulted space. Maybe she should join the chantry? Pledge her chastity, become a sister, because it was damned near impossible for Hawke - a creature usually unashamed of seeking, and receiving pleasure - to stop flirting with him.

She raised a brow. “I should take that as a yes?”

When he set to move, her eyes lowered to the way his stomach muscles rippled and grew taunt beneath firm flesh. She trailed the lines of his war paint upwards from the waist of his loin cloth, and pondered at its meaning. That was, until he began to circle her. Slowly, leisurely almost, and yet with great intent. Hawke pivoted to keep her front to him.

“So, which shall it be? Shall I prove to you I am a trained warrior, or that I am a woman?” Maker, where was her head at? And her mouth. She must have truly had her head screwed on the wrong way to tempt such a being into either combat or sex. He looked competent and well built for both acts. Deadly so. 

Varric would be having kittens if he were here. He’d write about it, oh yes, but he’d be shaking his head in disbelief as he mentally jotted down her suicidal spectacles as they unfolded.

The Arishok stilled, and when he bent his head to fix his stare on her, her height (lack of) meant his chin near rested on his chest, tucked between his shoulders and the heavy plates her wore there. He licked his lips, displaying a startlingly sharp tongue and pointed at her with a blackened claw. Her brows rose to her hairline as she focussed on it. Definitely not human.

“Why must it be only one fact proven? Why not both?”

Blood rushed to her ears, among other places. “I don’t mix pleasure and pain.” Hawke was pleased that her answer was firm, that her voice didn’t waver.

His hand dipped and his claw along with it, until the tip of it came to rest on the centre of her breast bone. Hawke felt it, even through the tunic she wore. Hadn’t she been wearing her armour earlier? Where had it gone? The thought, and the concern, drifted away from her...

“The Qunari do not partake in pleasure.” He told her this, in his unshakeable way, but his brows knitted above his nose and he took a step into her. It would have brought them flush together, had she not taken one backwards to regain some sense; some semblance of distance while she span her web of questions.

“No pleasure? What a unfulfilling way to live.”

“There is peace in purpose; one which serves the many over the one. Personal pleasure leads to uncertain roads.”

“And yet your claw is teasing open my tunic?” She smirked, and for some inane reason, she wasn’t fearful. Probably from all the times she’d been clobbered over the head by enemy shields, fists and occasionally the blunt end of a weapon. It had left her brain rattled.

The Arishok appeared at odds with himself as he thought on her words for a number of seconds, but then his eyes took an an intense gleam. “The Qun seeks to learn, to gain knowledge. I must know if you are who you say you are. You have offered me proof, and I would have it.”

She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. That sounded like an excuse if she’d ever heard one, which she had, many times. There had certainly been more colourful and believable ones than his. “If you say so.”

“Na'thek.” He invaded her space, filled up her senses in the blink of an eye, and Hawke was more than okay with that. He crowded her backwards, until her back met one of those three pillars. She felt the grooves of it at her spine.

Her palm shot up to press on his chest, and though he was cold to the touch, the Arishok was evidently very much alive. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, and her fingers flexed against his skin. He snatched Hawke by the wrist, and held her away from him. She huffed, was she not allowed to touch him though this?

The Arishok gestured curtly with his chin to her palm, caught between his fingers, “Vitaar.” He motioned to the red coating her skin, and while swallowing against the unwelcome symbolism, her eyes flickered to the smudge of paint she’d left behind on his chest. “Poison. Do not ingests, Bas, or you will die.”

“Noted.”

He hesitated an instant, before releasing her, to which Hawke swiftly wiped her palm on her britches. Not only was he built to be deadly, but he was also covered in a substance that would kill her.

Second thoughts rose in her, but were chased away when his hands began to pick at the buckles which secured his pauldrens. Hawke was hard pressed to heed any reasons not to go ahead, as he let one slide off, to hit the ground with a heavy clank, before the other followed.

She was fixated on him, on his movements and that intensified when he reached for his belts. When she thought he would remove it, he only rearranged himself and flashed her in the process. Hawke closed her eyes, and offered a silent prayer to the Maker at what she’d caught a glimpse of below his skirts.

The Maker would probably shun her for desiring a heathen, but then, she was probably already shit out of luck when it came to his good graces.

Her trousers, not something she usually went without, vanished. She blinked at that, and had the impression he’d cut them away with his claws, but couldn’t find reason to care. A blink, and he had her up against the pillar, legs wrapped around his hips with her arms draped across his painted shoulders. His hand moved from her waist only to bring her knee higher, and to to drape the folds of his skirts out of his way.

“What are you waiting for?” Woah, steady, her brain carolled. But somehow, Hawke just knew it would work, that she was ready. A miracle, she’d call it and leave it at that.

Hips lips peeled back to reveal clenched teeth. As good a warning as any not to attempt to kiss him, no matter how badly she wanted to. When the hard, yet velvet skin of his member found her opening, Hawke bit her lip. In one smooth, teeth clattering stroke, she took him into her fully. It was sweet oblivion, and Hawke moaned unabashed, head thrown back against the pillar.

Her body should have needed more time after her prolonged sex absence, but there was no resistance as he stretched her.

The Arishok set a feverish pace. Each thrust pushed her spine further into the pillar. A wall of stone at her back, and he was one at her front, then there was another inside her. “Anaan esaam Qun!” He bellowed, quite suddenly. The words meant nothing to her, but his voice heralded a deep pump of his hips.

Her nails bit into the skin over his shoulders, beyond caring that the poisonous paint buried itself under them. White locks spilled out, tickling her overly sensitive skin, and her fingers searched for the pale stands of his hair. She felt a surge of victory when she clutched it, ran her fingers through it and dug her nails into his scalp.

He growled - actually growled, a sound no human man could make and his head dipped to the junction of her neck. Hawke gasped, as his teeth grazed over the thin skin there. His pace never faulted, and each thrust hit her centre like a wollop mallet. When her hands sought his horns, he threw his head like a bull. Grasping her hips firmly, he brought her down on his shaft, and plunged his teeth into her neck.

She cried out. Pleasure mixing with pain, and her orgasm rose. Striking her with its abrupt appearance. She was close, so close...

Hawke woke with a start, shot up and whacked her head onto the bunk above hers. The impact made dark spots dance in her vision, she groaned and rubbed the bump on her forehead. That was going to bruise, and she’d be lucky if she got away without an egg.

She’d been dreaming. Maker...

Blood still thundered in her ears, and heat still pooled low in her stomach. An unmissable ache.

Bethany leant down over the top bunk. “Sister?” Hawke almost jumped out of her skin, and squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden dizziness which came over her. “Are you okay? You woke with a start.”

“I noticed,” she muttered and rubbed the sore spot.

“You must have been having a strange dream.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the brunette whose head was just visible. “Why do you say that?” Embarrassment wared with exasperation. There was no privacy with her family. Never had been when they’d always been crammed together.

“Don’t look so angry, sister.” Bethany jested. “I only meant that you were thrashing, and then I heard you smack your head. Do you want me to take a look at that?”

Hawke let out a subtle breath of relief. At least she hadn’t spoken in her sleep. What would Beth think of her? She disliked the Qunari. It had been one of them who murdered one of her friends back in Lothering, when the Blight had just been upon them. Their name escaped her, but she recalled a group of farmers had taken him in, and he’d butchered them with his bare hands.

She felt a cold sweat come over her on that thought, but waved her sister away. “No need. Save your magic for more important matters.” Beforehand Hawke plonked herself back down on her mice bitten bed roll.

Bethany muttered at that, but returned to her own bunk. The wood above Hawke creaked. One of these days the structure would break, and it would be the death of her, but for now she lay on her mat, in Gamlin’s single bedroom shack.

Speaking of sleeping in a tiny room with her siblings, there was a distinct lack of snoring and smelly feet, wrapped in worn socks that had more holes than a fancy Orlesian cheese.

“Where’s Carver?”

There was a prolonged, uncomfortable silence, and the slight shift of fabric as her baby sister tensed. Hawke had said something wrong then.

“Carver died.”

She stared at the bunk above, unseeing.

“Shall I-?”

“Go back to sleep, Beth.”

It took some time, but Hawke eventually rolled to her side, and attempted to push the residue of the dream from her thoughts. Just like she did her brothers death. Push it down, there will be time to grieve later, when mother and Beth are safer. But there never was a later. 

Hawke hasn’t even properly moured her father. There had been no time. Then she’d been sent to war. Then the Darkspawn came. 

She had pent up sexual tension, was all. Within a few days she wouldn’t even remember the Arishok. They had an expedition to plan, and she probably wouldn’t ever step foot in the compound again. When they had money, she would visit the Blooming Rose.

That was the plan.

She’d seen there was a lovey red headed lass in there...

The complete opposite to the white haired giant. 


End file.
